


just arry

by slnstrly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Boarding School, F/M, Insecurities, Lommy and Hotpie being themselves, Mutual Pining, Past Aegon/ Arya, Past references, She's the Man AU, Sort of Jealousy, all the good shit, complicated mother and daughter relationship, happy belated birthday to my wife!!, just to be clear arya has feelings for gendry obvi but she doesn't know it yet, mentions/references of mental health, slightly depressed thoughts, though I changed many things to fit in in, throbb and satin/jon make an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slnstrly/pseuds/slnstrly
Summary: “Which guy we fucking?”Arya turned around to see Theon and Robb crawling underneath the bleachers in tow - Theon having a wild grin planted across his face and Robb looking like he wanted to crawl in a hole and probably stay for, like, eternity, probably.“Can you not talk about fucking with my sister, please, T, I am beginning you,” Robb pleaded, grimacing.Theon shrugs. “Shagging, then.”-in which arya goes to aegon hill prep to get revenge on her ex, aegon, and unintentionally steals her roommate and teammate's heart instead
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Satin Flowers/Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Kudos: 62





	just arry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alovelikeher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alovelikeher/gifts).



> I literally wrote this in 3 days. and only for my wife. happy belated birthday my darling!! super sorry this is late. hope u had a great day and is currently having a fantastic day. I love u lots, and not to fill u these disgusting emotions but my life has gotten better with you in it and you are only person whose capable of making me write in the gendrya/asoiaf fandom again :) mwah xxxx 
> 
> (enters I love u bitch vine here) 
> 
> so...this was meant to be a super short and sweet one shot that is based off she's the man, and, then it turned out to be this kind of......pool of emotions. inclusion of some mental health stuff, and heavy angst. so plus be aware before you read and be careful and safe. 
> 
> also: this is not cat hate at all. i think she's a really interesting and flawed, and complex character esp in books, but I just wanted to have references and mentions of the complexity of arya and cat's relationship

##### scared to be lonely

Arya thought going to pursue her dreams of ruthlessly beating her sexist ass (and other many colourful words) of a boyfriend - or ex boyfriend, really - would cure her mind of any qualms. But much to her chagrin, it was anything but that.

Christ, she hadn’t even beat him yet. She knew it wouldn’t be hard, all things considering. First, Aegon was an ass and lacked brain cells. Two, she had tenfold the skills he did (and Arya wasn’t saying that to be arrogant or anything, Aegon just sucked in general) and three, Arya believed in herself: she knew what she could do with a ball and her feet; it was her own superpower, she supposed. It was one of the only things she thought she was really good at, controlling where the ball went, scoring a goal, using her ruthlessness to win as a tactic, her lack of grace - which was what her mother always scolded her about - and using it to her advantage on the field where nobody cared about grace or etiquette, they just cared how many goals you could score. One of the reasons, out of the many, why she loved football so much.

All she needed to do was to train her fellow teammate and roommate, Gendry Waters. To put things lightly, or not so lightly, because tact wasn’t in Arya’s blood, Gendry was rubbish. At least in the beginning. He was messy, stubborn, and refused to take anybody’s advice, the obnoxious prick that he was, and seemed to be hell bent on making her life harder than it had to be. But after a while - after a lot of convincing and lots and lots of yelling on each other’s end - things began to look up and Gendry improved as Arya showed him different techniques and varieties of skills -

showing him not to look at football as a game. Because it wasn’t. It wasn’t just a game.

Football was not just a game or a sport, it was an art. And for some reason, Arya thought that was the sentence that stuck with Gendry the most out of everything she said to him, like the renounced obnoxious song, ‘hey there, Delilah,’ (it was annoying but you remembered it anyway or whatever Gendry thought about it, Arya had no idea) but perhaps it was simply just the Arya Stark effect: annoying people into being friends with her. But it seemed to have worked fairly well considering how much Gendry latched onto her - ok, that was heavy means of exaggeration, Gendry barely latched onto her like a ten year old to a teddy bear, but he was just wasn’t as surly and cold as he used to be.

And then, Hotpie and Lommy slowly warmed up to her. They were still precarious and cautious - well, not really Hotpie, it was more Lommy - only because of their weirdly protectiveinstincts. Instincts that Arya would be another person that would break poor old Gendry’s heart - people like Joffrey or another person who’d manipulate him (“Don’t be fooled, underneath all that, he has the biggest heart out of all of us, so yeah, if you hurt him, we’ll hurt you.” Which didn’t intimate Arya in the slightest, and, it probably would’ve been a sweet sentiment if Lommy hadn’t accidentally banged his arm against the table in a dire attempt to make an intimating gesture towards Arya.)which, of course, sounded ridiculous the way they put it - treating Gendry like he was fragile. A rag doll of sorts; as though he was something gentle, something made to be broken.

So, of course, because it was Arya, Arya the almighty warrior (not her words but fourtee year old self) who rained on people’s parades when they said something stupid and was never afraid to speak out of turn, voiced her opinions with a two to three minute rant about Gendry and how he wasn’t fragile (and also how she’d never hurt him unless they were playing football); a rant that could probably fill every end of a notebook.

Though, it in the end, it was okay because Hotpie grinned and so did Lommy, and Gendry did, too, even though she had no recollection, nor was she aware of it. It was the turning page written in songs and poetry, flutterings of a deep stained feeling of hope and all things disgustingly sweet.

  
Arya thought it was sweet. Her mother didn’t believe Arya knew what the word sweet was. Catelyn loved her dearly beneath all the criticisms telling Arya could be better, do better, and how she wasn’t as graceful (and everything else Sansa did!) as Sansa was, but she thought Arya didn’t understand nor was she experienced with the earthly tone of such sweetness. Arya was rough and wild, with disrupted emotions like they were sun raining down her skin, but that wasn’t true, because she was sweeter and knew the purity that thumped down to root of her bones that danced and tingled; andhow Arya, within that moment, never wanted those moments to end because they were sweeter than fig or cherry combined.

(And with the exception of Myrcella, Shireen and Dany, and Meera, she didn’t think she’s ever had friends like these. People who wouldn’t judge her and make her believe she was tarnished, resembling one of those paintings that was splotched with too more colour, too much spontaneity, too more spunk, something unseen . .different .. something that was made to be seen behind closed doors.)

(But in the end, she would realise, this was just a fantasy that was far too good to be true, a wicked one, no doubt - for they would only shun her and treat her like everyone else did, if they found out the truth. However, somehow it hurt more when she thought how Gendry would react to the news that she wasn’t really Arry. And it burned inside her lungs like nicotine, hands holding her lungs and heart into a tight embrace.)

She hadn’t slept all night. Not because Gendry, the obnoxious wanker that he was, who kicked her out of her own goddamn room without a single warning (well, in all fairness, he did, but Arya wasn’t focused on that) but because of the match tomorrow. Obviously. Not because of the boy with jet black ink hair with eyes the colour of the sea in the sweet summer evening.

Getting thrown out wasn’t a problem. She was always used to running away in the middle of the night - the cold didn’t bother her, she was a Northern girl through and through, after all - when she got upset because of Sansa or got tired with the things her mother thrown at her, and escaped to father or Jon’s place.

Besides, she spent most nights in her back garden kicking a ball, anyway. So that’s what she did. She trained and trained and trained, breathed into the still, salty air and listened to the chirp of a birdsong echoing through the field, the sound of her feet crunching against the grass, and dribbled, kicked and scored, time and time again.

“Fuck him,” she mutters, kicking the ball in the goal, each time she kicked it, drove her kick harder and faster, and using her anger from the fight she had with Gendry and Aegon being sexist and just a prick in general, the frustration that none of her parents supported her dreams. Her mother didn’t. Not really. She wanted her to have the life she led. The one Sansa was going to lead, ignoring the fact that Arya and Sansa weren’t the same; Sansa held her head up high with agility and grace and never said a word that wasn’t courteous; she was goddamn perfect. And Arya was nothing. At least nothing in comparison to Sansa (“You should be more like your sister, Arya!”) - Arya was so tired to listening to the same words over and over again, and feeling like she was a disappointment to everyone around her. And despite her father’s efforts, she caught the disappointment in his eyes.

All except Jon. The only one who was always on her side, always supported her through the thick and thin. With the exception of Rickon, but Rickon was only small, and one day Arya feared that he, too, would turn against her and abandon her like the rest of her family did - and probably would, too.

A sheen of sweat coated her forehead when she finally finished playing. Three hours, no breaks, just her and the rhythm flooding inside her veins. Her dance instructor, Syrio, told her many things, but the thing that stuck out most to her was how the everything was an exposition of dance.

“Your entire life is dance,” Syrio said to her one day. “Your body is an instrument and what is inside you . . . is the rhythm. And within this rhythm, holds the greatest amount of power that you cannot even fathom. Understand?” And when Arya had cocked her head as a response to no, he continued, gripping hold of her shoulders lightly. “Everything is a dance. Football is not a game nor a sport, but a dance. Sword fighting is not about fighting someone with a sword, it’s about the dance. The rhythm is derived from beneath your bones and you take power from this - and once you understand this, that in itself gives you power.”

Arya nodded, eyes fluttering shut, memorising the words, touching them lightly with the tip of her tongue. It painted her with the colour blue. Not the colour of bubblegum blue, but the colour of a water fountain, of oceans, deep blue seas and crystal.

“And what do we say?”

Arya didn’t even breathe, and without skipping a beat, she said, “don’t see with your words, see with your eyes. Quiet as shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water.”

Arya chugged the bottle of water until its remains were lost, holding the football under her arm, trudging quietly back to the showers. It was already quarter to five, so there was no chance of her blowing her cover if she went and washed her hair -

So that’s what she did. Shower. She showed her thoughts away. And let her thoughts be lost to the intensity of the water; and for a short yet sweet while, the water raining down on her skin washed away her thoughts and feelings.

That night, Arya fell into a deep slumber and dreamt of wolves.

The next morning, she woke up to the sound of screaming that came from a field and a distilled hallway, and that was when she realised she overslept. And her stupid alarm didn’t have the decency to at least turn on.

And then the day turned from a bad - and end oversleeping so you miss the first quarter of the game - day to worse, when she saw Jon standing on the field.

“What a fucking cliche,” Arya mutters, shaking her head as she watched the blue haired boy she called her ex, zooming across the field in full speed.

She wasn’t really sure what she ever saw in that guy, honestly. He was all talk and no action, irritatingly obnoxious the majority of the time and obviously had a superior complex. It wasn’t because of his looks or anything, or the vanities that engulfed society - all that never really bothered Arya; society has progressed past the point where we, as people, should care about the exterior rather than interior - but she did like the way he presented himself. (As cliche as it sounded) She liked his reputation. She liked how he wasn’t like the others (which was pretty gross and horribly cliched now the more she thought about it) and didn’t give in to society’s twisted beliefs.

His hair was the colour of bubblegum that was almost as bright as the violet streak inside his eyes, and at the time, she thought it was cool. She thought he was cool -

He was something spectacular out of another world, unearthly, something infused with figs and the sweetest fruits pressed into one; honeyed. Arya had always been romantic. Perhaps not in the conventional sense of romance, but she was. She picked wildflowers to give to her father, and she liked buying, making things; (artwork mostly or giving clothes she didn’t want to people who needed or wanted it more than she did.) But most of all, he felt magnetising - and suddenly, she was no longer still. A blank canvas became something splotched with a multitude of different flecks and colour.

And he was the only person to ever see her, she thinks. In the context that he had a firm belief that Arya was everything that world wasn’t: pretty, beautiful, a kindred spirit (at least that was what she thought) petals growing on his heart, roots stemming and growing under his skin, wild and tangible.

But now even thinking about it, Gods, it was stupid. She felt stupid. The feeling knotted inside her like a cat’s cradle, just twisting and twisting and twisting.

She remembers what Sansa asked her when she was eleven years old, that almost felt like a lifetime away.

“Do you even want a boyfriend, Arya?”

At first, Arya thought Sansa was being her usual self and doing the thing she always did: look down upon Arya, sneering. But, she wasn’t. She just wanted to know.

Arya huffed, muttering how boys suck, and Sansa let out a humph, looking sceptical, before turning back to what she was doing before. But she didn’t mean that - yeah, the majority of the boys she met did suck, but as a general statement, she didn’t believe that were the case. And she was eleven, so. So, of course she would say something that. It was just something she didn’t care for at the time.

At least until Aegon happened. Until someone called called her beautiful and in turn painted her a deep blue sky, and let twigs and sunshine bloom in her belly despite it’s fragmented state, and Arya held onto it until it became disorientated and discovered the cracks beneath the very surface she failed to see before.

And obviously it now occurred to her that it was nothing. Aegon was nothing but a man who once called her beautiful and Arya believed him because he was the first person to ever call her that. Even if it wasn’t true. But then again, none of what happened between Aegon and Arya were true, anyway.

And he was a sexist prick, anyway. Fuck that guy.

“Fuck that guy,” she muttered angrily to herself, her hand curling against her palm to make a tight fist.

She should be out there, kicking his ass but instead she was hiding the bleachers with a pair of binocular’s. Well, Theon’s pair of binoculars, to be exact. It literally had the words ‘PROPERTY OF THEON GREYJOY’S’ tattooed across them. Theon had once used them to spy on his neighbour who stole his doughnuts, so he could exact revenge on them. Because it was Theon, and he was the definition of a human disaster - a dumpster fire worked, too.

“Which guy we fucking?”

Arya turned around to see Theon and Robb crawling underneath the bleachers in tow - Theon having a wild grin planted across his face and Robb looking like he wanted to crawl in a hole and probably stay for, like, eternity, probably.

“Can you not talk about fucking with my sister, please, T, I am beginning you,” Robb pleaded, grimacing.

Theon shrugs. “Shagging, then.”

Robb groaned, putting his face in his hands. Then, “not without me, though.”

“What.”

“Don’t ... don’t shag someone without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Theon grins up at him, and Arya grimaced, feeling like she was in secondary school all over again when Theon and Robb could not read the room because they were as oblivious as oblivious people came, and clearly, they were the absolute worst.

“Will you two read the room - ” Arya’s hand gestured up and down to Robb and Theon who stared at her hand, perplexed, if not amused. _And stop flirting,_ she was going to say. But, she didn’t finish her sentence because the referee blew the whistle, motioning it was halftime. And when she saw Jon coming out, along with the other players, she quickly grabbed him.

“Arya? What the hell?” Jon snapped, after kicking her in the arm. It didn’t even hurt. She had only twisted her arm underneath his leg to stop the impact, before pulling him down in a swift, clean slide. And then grinned. “Why do you look like me? - and why in the Seven are Theon and Robb doing here?”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, Jonathan - ” Jon glared at Theon, “… Jonny boy, but you and Arya have always looked alike. Because, you know. You’re siblings? In case you haven’t noticed.”

Jon ignored him.

“Ok, so you know how you went to the wall for a year to get a career in architecture? While you were away, I pretend to be you so I could get revenge on my ex.”

“You had a boyfriend?”

“You what.”

“Who is he?” Robb asked, “for personal reasons only. Just normal things. You know brother to - ”

Arya rolled her eyes. Right, this was why she didn’t tell anyone aside Sansa and Jon - Sansa had a knack of making one spill secrets and was equipped the height and art of romance, apparently, which weren’t Arya’s words - and Arya told Jon herself naturally. Over brunch. In a very Arya-like fashion. No bullshit, just plain honest, simple, incredibly tactless words, which made Jon choke on the omelette he was eating.

“This is why I don’t tell either of you things.”

Jon crossed his arms over his chest and glared like a petulant child not getting their way. And if Arya wasn’t so deeply woven in a crisis she planted herself into, this entire situation would be highly amusing.

“So you tell Jon these things, then?- ” Arya and Jon stared blankly back at Robb, “Ok, I think it’s time for a sibling intervention.”

“Robb, shut up,” Jon snapped, and then turned to Arya, a placated expression forming across his face. “Arya, why didn’t you just tell me.”

Arya shrugged. She didn’t she needed to. Well, for one, it was more of a choice she made - impulsively, might she add - so she didn’t exactly think about the consequences that would come in the aftermath. And anyways, she didn’t think Jon would be back so soon, so technically that wasn’t on her.

(Jon needed to get with it. It’s all about getting revenge on your asshole ex these days anyway)

And she knew he’d probably already figured it out by the time he asked her the question, slow and meaningful as if testing the words on the tip of his tongue, narrowed his eyes at her - that it wasn’t just about her revenge scheme on Aegon, it was about how she didn’t tell Jon because she knew that he would worry about her. And probably drop everything to be there for her.

“Didn’t think you’d be back so early.”

“Arya…”

“Jon, I don’t have time for this. I’ll explain everything later, but now can you just - give me your uniform and we’ll talk later, ok?”

Jon put his pinkie out, “promise?”

“Promise,” her voice was no more than a ghost of a whisper when she connected her pinkie with his, a silent promise etching through the air.

It was loud when she walked to the field. Too loud, even. Not that she was alarmed by it, in the slightest. It was sort of calming, actually. Some people found peace in the silence, but Arya, always found the noise therapeutic and soothing.

Gendry was the first person she saw on the field. He stood there as taller as a skyscraper from those heavily industrialised buildings your saw in Kings Landing, arms crossed over his chest, looking aggravated at what Lommy was throwing at him - which, unfortunately for Gendry, was probably another reference Gendry probably didn’t understand nor did he want to — the expression on his face pressed into a sense of stillness, something solemn, reminding her of steel.

“Hey.”

Lommy’s voice stopped short at the sound of Arya’s voice. He didn’t say anything else, though. Not an inkling of sound escaped his throat, only the pesky sound of tittering - awkward tittering, no less, which Arya assumed it was because Lommy and Hotpie managed to pry why they weren’t talking out of Gendry, which was actually quite impressive, mind you, but not surprising because it was Hotpie and Lommy - whilst Gendry stared at her, gaze lingering on her face, eyes hardening by the second.

“Hi,” he says. It was simple and it could’ve been interpreted to be sweet if you were someone else who didn’t know better. But Arya wasn’t. She wasn’t a stranger and certainly knew the anger that pulsated through his tone of voice just then. His response was jarred and slightly mocking, a little frayed at the edges, a passing resemblance to the storm that hit the skies.

Lommy looked between Gendry and Arya and waved. Awkwardly. His hand just flopped in the air clumsily, not seeming to be sure where he was aiming at. “Um. Hey, Arry.”

“Hi, Lommy.”

Lommy shifted. “Well, um. I’m just going to go, and, see what there is to . .” Lommy looked around the field, before his eyes made its way to the grass he was standing on. “Eat. Um… See you then.”

Nobody said anything until Gendry broke it.

“Took you long enough,” he says. “But I suppose you were too busy with someone else, weren’t you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gendry laughed. But there was nothing sweet about it. It was dropped with poison and bitterness all the way through. “I saw you, Arry. I saw you last night.”

She had no idea what he was talking about. Arya wished Gendry could stop being such aenigmatic asshole.

“What in Gods name are you talking about?”

“I saw you kissing Satin!”

Arya opened her mouth to say something, anything, but then the whistle blew and everyone got into position, and Gendry walked off. Or really, stormed away. She frowned. Satin was gay. So yeah, she definitely did not kiss him. She was baffled as to why Gendry thought she did -

“Snow!” The referee called her name, and her train of thought came to a halt, as she made her way into position on the field. And then in the matter of a few seconds, the whistle blew again and the referee lifted his arm up to commence the start of the game.

And then it began. It was the calm before the storm seconds before, and now, there was nothing but chaos on the field,with players slamming against each other, legs and feet intertwined, attempting to yank the ball off each other. Arms and elbows were used; groans and noises of pain slipped out of player’s mouths in dire attempts to achieve the ball, which only costed them a face planted in mud and most likely more pain.

The field echoed with the noise from spectators, the players and the yells from the crowd, (and the two opposing coach’s who now broke into a dance of violence, knocking each other on the ground, but it wasn’t surprising, Brienne and Jaime hated each other, so obviously it had to happen at one point)and the wild song drumming inside Arya’s chest. So, she shut her eyes. She didn’t blink. She let her eyes flutter shut and focused on Syrio’s voice, rememberinghis words that were so earthly and silent, yet loud at the same time; all encompassing.

“Your life is a dance. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Not today. Not today. Not today. Your body is an instrument and what is inside you . . . is the rhythm. And within this rhythm, holds the greatest amount of power that you cannot even fathom. Everything is a dance. Football is not a game nor a sport, but a dance. Sword fighting is not about fighting someone with a sword, it’s about the dance. The rhythm is derived from beneath your bones and you take power from this - and once you understand this, that in itself gives you power,” she whispers. “Fear cuts deeper than swords.”

And then she opened her eyes and saw a sea of people racing towards her with the ball, and without a second left to spare, she ran straight into the war. To the ball. To screaming participants on the field who roared names she couldn’t quite hear nor understand on the field, only focusing on the ball, and Syrio’s words, then twisted and danced and twisted. A song of dance.

“Fear cuts deeper than swords,” she whispers. Then she ran, and ran and ran, until it felt like her legs were on fire before scoring.

It went like this, time and time again. When it wasn’t her, it was Gendry, knocking the balls into the goal.

Until the end. It was five-four to Aegon Hill to Aegon high. As most stories go, right before you get to the end, the main character had to beat the antagonist: this was that moment, before the very end. At least she hoped so. And as valid it was was to beat the antagonist a second time after falling down and being unable to get up, she really just wanted to beat Aegon the first time.

But in life, she knew it wasn’t as that. Life wasn’t effortlessly sweet a lot of the time, it was bittersweet.

(And sometimes in life you fell down but what matters is getting back up again. So yeah, if Arya lost that would be ok, too. Even if it would be a struggle. Even the obstacles she’d take get back up again.)

She doesn’t feel sweat clinging against her skin. Only the sun kissing her skin, oh so delicately, the wind brushing against her in a time-like mannerism, and then inhaled and exhaled, before scoring, nearly hitting Aegon in the head in the process - which she wasn’t overtly bothered by.

The crowd roared their names. Roared Arya’s name. The team’s name. Rising to a thunderous applause all around them. Arya barely noticed it. She turned away and let herself be engulfed by her team who shouted and grinned, arm slithering around each other like a snake, despite the mud and grass sticking against their skin.

They didn’t seem to mind, though. And neither did Arya.

She only had eyes for one person, though.

Gendry Waters stood away from the crowd looking into nowhere, standing beside Hotpie and Lommy who looked like they were having the time of their lives, eyes bright, mouths shutting and opening as the seconds escaped away from them.

Noticing Arya’s presence, Hotpie got hit in the arm by Lommy, who waved awkwardly - once again - and Hotpie opened his mouth to say something but didn’t. Then, the two of them took off a few inches away, before exploding back into easy conversation.

“Hey.”

“…hey.”

Silence overtook them. Silence was a tricky thing. Sweet sometimes, but mostly not. This silence thrummed into their bloodstream and was an outcry of something that pulsated with discomfort, formalities set aside.

“So about earlier - ”

“I guess congratulations are in order,” Gendry says, sneering. Arya could tell it was there, the bitter laugh that threatened to escape the tip of his tongue. She frowned, her mouth making a cutting resemblance of a thin line. She didn’t know how it looked - she just knew how angry she felt.

“What’s the matter with you, Gendry?” she snapped, eyes narrowing. “Why are you being such a dick -

“Um, hey.”

Arya’s mid-rant gets interrupted by the appearance of Satin who smiled at awkwardly. Less awkward than Lommy, but she assumed it might’ve been because he was sort of getting in the middle of an argument without possibly meaning to. Her mouth moves from a line to an ‘o’ shape, eyebrows knitting together. Satin Flowers stood in front of her with a wide smile painted across his lips; wearing a soft sort of smile that seemed gold pleated and kind - a smile that seemed to be reserved for someone else rather than one for herself.

At least that’s what she thought.

“So, are you ready for that date then? Good job on the win, by the way. I didn’t know you played.”

Gendry scoffed. And Arya stared wide eyed at Satin (after glaring at Gendry, though he remained unaffected, arms crossed against his chest) who looked between Arya and Gendry with a frown.

“A date?” Satin nodded, “between you and . . .me? Like, together?”

Satin nodded. Arya frowned. Gendry stared.

“Uh - ”

And then Jon appeared out nowhere, before professing his love to Satin and told Satin he was Jon, the Jon from the last night, the one who asked him out on a date and gave him the coat because it was cold last night, and they shared a chocolate chip cookie and a coffee.

Then, with Arya’s permission, told Satin about the growing complications, and how Arya was pretending to be Jon and wasn’t actually Jon and did something very Jon-like. He picked up a stray flower sitting on a strand of grass and held it out before telling Satin a compelling notion of romance and how this flower reminded him of him and asked if they could start over.

And then Jon smiled at Satin. Arya stared. So did Gendry. And after that, there were only two of them; Arya and Gendry staring at nothing and everything altogether.

“So, um, about - ”

“I knew,” he says quietly, and paused, “I knew you were a girl.”

She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to ask why he didn’t turn her in and why he was telling her this now and why, oh why, did he just play along with it and pretend he was oblivious to it all when he knew all this time. That she wasn’t who she made herself out to be. Then frowned. And shook her head. And decided against it.

“How?”

“Because I know you.”

Three simple words that managed to shook the world on its axis. Of course he knew her. Out of everyone here, he was the one she was closest to. Aside from the fact that she didn’t tell him who she said was, he knew her from in to out. He knew her family and the drama that came with it, who her parents are, insecurities she’s never told anyone else before and the simple yet complex one of all: he understood her. More than anyone else. More than Jon.

He did. He did know her.

“Fuck you, Gendry,” is the first thing she says, despite the warmth that spreads inside her like a disease. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t do anything. He curls his fingers and flexes them before turning his gaze back to her, hard and sharp, stormy, reflecting every bit of steel that she was sure was a genetic thing. Fucking Baratheon’s. He was nothing like his father, though. And she hoped he knew it, too, despite how many times Arya had told him.

And Arya had said to him she would keep telling him until he believed her.

“Fuck you, too, Arya,” he replies. But he didn’t mean it. His voice seemed lighter, his lips tugging towards the sky.

The corner of Arya’s lips tilted up before it dropped down almost entirely; it was a juxtaposition at its finest.

“I’m sorry.”

He knew what she’s talking about. She didn’t have to go into further detail about it. He knew. Of course he did.

“I know,” he responds. And then, quieter, “me too.”

Can we. . can we start over?”

And with that, Gendry stares at her just like he did when they first met: assessing, annoyed (pondering as to why this person was talking to him, probably) and nods. And Arya smiles that was all fire and no smoke, sunshine and no rain, and suddenly everything was ok.

Because she was Arry, and he was Gendry.


End file.
